Recently, a supervisor who had attended one of my courses sent me a short follow-up note on some of the work she is doing to manage conflict in her work unit. I replied, adding this thought: “learning happens out of love for the soul, not self-criticism.” You may infer from this that the supervisor’s note included some self-deprecation, but this would be only partially true. In truth, her note was straightforward; she had taken on a difficult situation and worked with it effectively.
So my statement, only partly relevant, was one of those lines that seems to emerge from time to time from some other source, a place that I know is more about teaching me than sharing an observation with someone else. It is my mirror. When I think I am reflecting something of wisdom back to another, sometimes it is only something that is meant for my own education. A beam behind me, swung by the crane of my own unconsciousness, hits me hard enough to take notice.
I had a dream not too long ago that is symbolic — aren’t they all? I was in a strange land, mysterious, magical in a threatening way. I was traveling with a young girl who was in my care. We reached a stopping point and night was coming on. I found a deserted, ancient room in an old ruin to stay for the night. The girl lay down to sleep, pulling her cloak over her. There was a dark cave in the wall above her and I was afraid of what might appear through that opening and the passageway behind it, but before long I became less worried and more interested in my need to create a place that seemed safe and protected even if in reality I could not do so.
The entire room seemed charred as if fire had flushed throughout it at some time in the long past. The walls, ceiling and floor were black with soot. Above me the ceiling was crowded with immense dangling knots of cobweb falling from fire-ruined beams where I could see insects crawling and vermin scuttling about.
I looked for something to clear the webs and found nothing except a charred length of wood maybe ten feet long. I gripped the soft, blackened pole in my hands and began to awkwardly brush away the webs. By mistake, the tip my charred club knocked against one of the walls of the room. Where it struck the soot fell away and suddenly a radiant filigree* of gold and silver appeared. Fascinated, I struck the wall several more times and with each blow soot fell away in irregular cloud shapes revealing new beautiful patterns of filigree hidden just beneath the surface. I understood then that the room was part of some ancient palace that was only thinly masked by the soot, and that all I had to do was hit the wall repeatedly to reveal its magical essence.
The context for this dream is that I have been working hard on chapters of a new book on leadership and consciousness. Yet, each time I sit down to write what I find is that I constantly must push through self-doubts and self-criticisms in order to write. Once I actually get into it, I’m alright, but the start-up consistently is a painful process, and I’ve been mystified by that. Feel free to add your interpretations but what does seem transparent about the dream is its insistence that it is only by hitting the wall that the soot falls away. The soot is not thick or impenetrable, but there’s a sense that the work begins in a very dark room with considerable danger; that I am there in part to protect a part of me that is vulnerable (and needs to rest); and that the effort to make things better is relatively simple but dirty work. I have to “hit the wall” repeatedly to reveal the awesome filigree beneath.
My interpretation is simple. The soot equals that difficulty getting started. I have to knock it away and keep knocking it away. The soot represents old voices and self-doubts, but this is not as important as the protection I offer or the effort to create a sense of comfort in an alien land. It seems so true to me that the soot is useless, and is something that has built up over time. That finding beauty in my work is a result of my effort to create a kind of home in a difficult place. That whatever I am learning through my work and is reported in my writing happens best out of love of soul than self-criticism. The gold and silver filigree exists just beneath the surface, waiting to be revealed.
*filigree: ornamental work of fine (typically gold or silver) wire formed into delicate tracery. The origin of the word is Latin: filum (“thread”) plus granum (“seed”). To me these words point directly to soul.
That was exactly what I needed today! How amazingly put and yet so easy to understand.
Thank you, Alyx, and welcome. It’s great to have your voice here!
Dan:
Fabulous imagery — in the photos and words (especially your dream)!
I, too, often find that whatever insights and experiences I share with another person, intending to be of service to him or her, is nearly always something that I need to hear or read myself.
As a veteran of many head/wall collisions, I’m grateful for your sharing the insights into the silver lining — or filigree? — of hitting the wall: “it is only by hitting the wall that the soot falls away … I have to “hit the wall†repeatedly to reveal the awesome filigree beneath.”
Last night, I was reading David Whyte’s poem, The Faces at Braga, which uses different imagery but explores a similar theme:
I wish you all the best with your book, and look forward to the revelation that emerges from the “simple but dirty work” you are willing to take on!
It’s a beautiful poem, Joe. Thanks for the link, and all your kind words.